Finding Uncle Newton: -And His Nemesis-

By Douglas Cornelius

She is outgoing, but orphaned. He is introverted, but a world-renowned scientist. Would moving in with Uncle Isaac Newton work? When his head was always in a book or the Bible?
Teen-aged Catherine Barton tries desperately to connect, so seeks a match for her energy in the London coffeehouses. That women were not welcome there in the late 1690’s would not stop her, and she does find promising boyfriend John.
Meanwhile, Uncle Isaac, as new Warden of the Mint, has his own challenges—nabbing counterfeiters, including the notorious, William Chaloner. He enlists Catherine to spy at the coffeehouse, and she welcomes the bond—all until boyfriend John gets implicated in a counterfeiting scheme.
Then a case of smallpox, a pandemic scourge that had killed millions just decades earlier, sends her off to dreaded isolation in the countryside.
And Uncle Isaac’s battle to nab the devious Chaloner turns into a challenging chess match. Will famous scientist Newton be embarrassed by a scofflaw from the street? Will Catherine ever find her true connection?
Based on actual historical events and people. Author is a prior recipient of Moonbeam and Illumination Awards for books for faith-driven teens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662906565

Book preview

reading.

Fall 1695

Grantham, England

You must leave, young lady, came Mrs. Ordway’s stern voice. I’ll hear nothing more about it.

Catherine Barton would have expected the eyes of the woman bearing such news to be forlorn and despondent, but instead, they were most dark and serious. Her message prompted a slight gasp from Catherine, followed by a churning of her stomach.

Catherine folded her arms and pushed herself back farther on her bed. She wished she could see the defiant look surely grabbing her face, in contrast to the puzzled stares of the half-dozen girls, now silent on their beds around her. She searched their eyes, as well. Nary a peep of protest came from them.

You are almost sixteen now. We need your bed for a younger girl. You’ll be able to manage just fine out in the world. Mrs. Ordway continued striding toward the door. I’ll give you a few coins and see you on your way.

It wasn’t that Catherine was anxious to stay. She just didn’t like being pushed out. True, she would miss the friends she’d made the past year. Ever since her father and mother had died and neighbors dropped her off at the orphanage, she’d tried to relate to the other girls. But so many of them were withdrawn, living in their own little worlds.

Now she’d have to try finding whatever family she had left. A stepuncle had shown interest in her in years past, but when she wrote to him upon her mother’s death, she’d received no response. She had never been too close to her father, who preceded her mother in her heavenly journey.

Back stiff, chin high, Catherine dressed for the day, then threw what few belongings she had into a cloth sack. She prayed she’d remember how to find her Uncle Isaac’s place near Cambridge. An arduous journey lay ahead, and a lack of rain meant the long trip would be most dusty.

Several summers had passed since she’d last seen him. But she smiled even now as she descended the dreary stairs thinking of their last encounter when he had worked with her on her reading. The book had been A Token for Children, and he’d been quite patient when she stumbled over the words. Would he be happy to see her now?

Weary from travel, Catherine knocked on a door the following afternoon. But it did not bring an immediate response. Could it be he no longer lives here? She rapped harder, her heartbeat quickening to match the pace of her pounding fist—rap, rap-rap, rap. Where those steps she heard? She stopped only long enough to listen, then lifted her knuckles again. But before she could strike the hardened wood again, the door creaked open.

Uncle Isaac’s eyes bulged as he stepped back. My goodness, Catherine. You’re the last person I expected to see.

She shifted from foot to foot as she tried to measure the joy in his heart by his facial expression—but was there joy? Seemed all she could see was surprise.

Please come in, he continued, then led the way inside and gestured toward a chair. You look as though you’ve made a long trek. All the way from Grantham? I’m sure you could use a cup of tea.

As she slumped in her chair, he placed a kettle over a flame. So how have you been? What brings you here?

A lot has happened since I last saw you, Uncle. Did you not get my letter?

He remained quiet a moment, then seemed to mumble something indiscernible under his breath as he sat across from her, but looked away. Did I not respond to you? I’ve been distracted.

I never received anything. Are you aware my mother died? She winced. She’d not meant to speak so sharply.

His head jerked up. Hannah? The muttering continued under his breath, so Catherine scooted closer to the table trying to hear him. Hannah dead? A shame. Oh, that’s a terrible shame. Then he focused on her again. You look like her, you know. Oh dear. Come to think of it, a long time has passed since I received a letter from her. I’m sorry I never responded to your letter. He paused, scrubbed a hand over his face, and shifted his body in his chair. So how have you been getting along?

Well, I’ve been in an orphanage the last year.

An orphanage? Oh. Oh dear. He rubbed the back of his neck. I–I never knew. He got up and poured two cups of tea, handing one over to her. He also offered her a crumpet. I can imagine you’ve had a difficult time.

Yes, rather…. With no father and then no mother. She sighed, then blurted out, What’s happened, Uncle Isaac? Where have you been these last years? She shook her head and pressed a hand to her stomach.

To tell you the truth—he paused and exhaled—I’ve had my own problems, but I don’t need to get into all that.

The bitter tea stung her tongue. The orphanage had watered it down so she’d forgotten the full power of its flavor. She brushed a bit of crumpet off her lap. Her eyes then found his and locked on them. Please tell me. Don’t you see? I’m trying to reconnect with you? A fluttering continued in her chest.

All right. He lifted his teacup but said no more as he scowled at the liquid.

She waited. Had he forgotten her question? Should she ask again?

Then he lowered the cup and set it just so on its mismatched saucer. I was in a state of high anxiety and depression. I found out I didn’t even respond to letters from my good friends such as John Locke.

Oh goodness. An ache constricted her throat. How long did that all last?

A couple years, I must say. He pressed his lips tight. I was spending a lot of time on my alchemy experiments. Things were not going well.

Alchemy?

He waved a hand in the air—the hand that held his teacup again. Liquid sloshed on the table, though he didn’t seem to notice. That has to do with chemicals and metals and how they react to one another.

Oh, she replied, not exactly what I dream about at night. She chuckled and savored another sip of the vibrant tea. Last time I saw you, you were contemplating a new concept you called gravity, trying to explain why an apple would fall to the ground and not fly out into space.

Yes, and that led to further profound studies about the solar system and how the planets are balanced in their attraction to one another. All God’s work.

Indeed, but all a bunch of gibberish to me. I remember your telling me about the planets before, but that’s where it got left. She took a gander around the room, noting the sparkle of what looked like metal shavings laid out in a neat row on a piece of paper on the table. Dare I ask, have you recovered from your depression?

I’m doing much better now. He leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the floor as he rocked it. But I’ve now got a major decision to make. It would mean moving from here to London and taking on a whole new challenge in my life. I’m not sure how well it would suit me.

Thinking of her situation, Catherine pursed her lips. Would her uncle consider bringing her with him? Why would he when she had nothing to offer?

As they sat together at the dinner table, Isaac pushed his knife vigorously back and forth. Once a piece of beef broke off the leather-like slab on his plate, he deposited it into his mouth, then chewed.

Perhaps I roasted it a bit too long, Catherine offered, something her busy jaw could attest to.

Yes, probably. But don’t worry. We will make do. Eating has never been my favorite pastime. Although, if you think about it, chewing longer should allow one to more fully savor the taste.

Well, if there’s any taste there to begin with. All said and done, cooking has never been my strong suit. She frowned at the lonely potatoes on her plate, rearranging them as if they expected a caress from her fork. Wanting to change the subject, she asked, So, tell me about this new job awaiting you in London.

It’s at the Mint—you know, where they coin money. They’re talking about naming me the new warden. His shoulders slumped sheepishly.

Warden? She scrunched up her nose. That sounds like something completely foreign to what you’re used to. What does that have to do with figuring out how nature works?

There’s a lot of problems over there. I think they believe I can analyze how to fix what’s going wrong. His back straightened as if taking on the challenge of a new set of problems.

Like what?

He shoved his plate aside, crossed his arms on the table, and leaned on them, turning those serious brown eyes on her. Counterfeiting, for one thing.

Really? She licked her lips and forcibly closed the mouth she’d let slide open. There’s lots of people making false coins?

Yes, indeed. Then there’s also a big problem with clipping. His thin lips pressed even tighter. Surely, you’ve seen those smaller coins around, haven’t you? Scoundrels are clipping off the edges and sending the metal off to France or some other place where it’s worth more.

And you would go after these people? She cocked her head.

That’s the idea, came his matter-of-fact response.

Catherine put her fork down and eyed the man across from her. Not in any way could she see this man running around after thugs. But how could she say so tactfully? But, Uncle, you’re so reserved and quiet. Would you like a job like that?

Well, I don’t know. Sorting things out with analysis would be interesting. I’m praying to God for guidance.

In the extended silence, she wiggled in her chair. Do you suppose there would be a place for me in such a future?

Perhaps. Those thin lips now widened into a smile. Are you asking if you can be my cook? he queried, bright-eyed.

They both burst out laughing.

In time. Give me some time. To begin with, I could keep your abode clean, wherever that may be in London. Her heart thudded in her chest, a grin pulling at her lips. My intuition is telling me that should work. Yes, of course, we’d both be off to new adventures, wouldn’t we? An elbow on the table, she leaned in.

His head jerked up. Do you smell anything? Is something burning? My study! There’s smoke coming out. He jumped up and rushed into a cloud of smoke billowing out the doorway.

Oh my, he shouted. There’s a fire in here. Get some water. A candle has burned down. There’s a bucket in the closet. No, he muttered. It can’t be. My manuscripts—my precious manuscripts! Hurry, Catherine. Hurry.

The fire was soon extinguished. Isaac stood poking at smoldering papers, whatever notes they carried, consumed, now ashes.

Well, these can be replaced, he mumbled, shaking the head that would be tasked with re-creating them. Fortunately, none of my valuable books were damaged. A deep exhale followed. Turning to Catherine, he added, Thanks for being my fireman as well!

Don’t worry, Uncle. When it comes to all things burning, I’m a master. A half-smile crept across her face, and his followed suit.

The stagecoach trip to London in the spring of 1696 was uneventful, and that was most fortunate. A highwayman or two was known to frequent these parts, but today gave no sign of one. Catherine and her uncle had enjoyed their restful stop at the inn at Ware. Several more hours away, London awaited them. London, she repeated to herself. Life in the big city will most certainly be different . She bit on her lower lip as she recalled what she was leaving behind—the idyllic life on her deceased father’s farm.

As she sat in the crowded coach across from Isaac, Catherine studied his visage. His hair, prematurely gray for a fifty-three-year-old, framed a pleasant but long face with a prominent nose. A smile could occasionally be drawn out—that she had already discovered. His penetrating brown eyes stared out the window, not focused on any one thing. Perhaps they were imagining some other world foreign to her.

Uncle, she said, then had to repeat it. When were all your books supposed to arrive?

He tipped his head in her direction. They should already be there.

I can’t believe how many of them were loaded onto that wagon. I should have counted. It would have been an interesting tidbit of conversation.

"Yes, I suppose so. But it’s what is inside them that’s